Finite Incantatem
by Annamia
Summary: Harry has defeated Voldemort and comes back to Hogwarts expecting to fall into the arms of his one true love. Unfortunately, that love has problems of his own. HD slash. Angst, suicide attempts, trajedy. R&R please!


_This is the interlude between a finished story (which is looking for a beta reader, so if anyone's interested!) and a yet to be written one. It stands on its own, though (or at least, I think it does). Just in case I'm wrong, in Emerald Fog, Harry and Draco fall in love. At the end, Harry tells Draco that they can't stay together because it's too dangerous. (Much like he does with Ginny at the end of HBP. And, oh dear. I'm really giving a lot away, aren't I?) Anyway, he goes off and fights Voldemort, spending much of a year as a captive of the Death Eaters in the process. The war is now over, and the consequences of all actions must be faced..._

_Of course, Harry and Draco and Voldi and all of them belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm playing with them and pretending that they're mine for a bit. Hope she forgives me. Rated for angst and tradjedy.

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**Finite Incantatem**

**Interlude between Emerald Fog and Moonlight at Midnight**

**Kyra**

He woke up to darkness. He blinked, trying to remember where he was. He was on a bed. That was different. He hadn't been on a bed in… Gods, how long had it been? Slowly, he sat up, noting the burning pain in his muscles. He was alive. Was that good, or was it bad? He didn't know. It would depend on where he was. If he was safe… Safe. How long had it been since he'd been safe? He didn't ever remember what it felt like to be safe. To be loved.

Draco. The name shot through him like a curse, shocking him into full awareness. With awareness came remembrance, and he knew. He knew where he was, and he knew what had happened. He was in the Infirmary at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Voldemort was dead, killed by Harry's own hand. Life would go on.

But why should it? After all, everyone else had died to preserve that life. To preserve _his_ life. His parents were dead, sacrificing themselves to save him. Cedric was dead, because he wasn't Harry. Sirius was dead, killed by Harry's own folly. Dumbledore was dead, attacked by a man he'd thought to trust. Lupin and Tonks were dead, slaughtered along with so many others in the final battle. Yet Harry himself wasn't dead. He was very much alive, and he wished that he weren't. What did he have to live for, after all?

Draco. He lived for Draco. He strained his eyes to see what time it was. Draco would know that he was still alive, and he would come. Surely he realized why Harry had done what he'd done, and he would forgive him. Harry needed to be forgiven. He needed to hear Draco's voice saying the words. Then everything would be all right again. Until Draco came, then he would have to wait, torn between his pain at the deaths and his joy that it was finally over. Only when Draco came would he be whole once more.

He closed his eyes, lying down again and sinking deeply back into oblivion.

He woke again, this time to light. Two forms were hovering over him, looking anxiously down. His exhausted and pain-numbed brain took a moment to identify them properly: Ron and Hermione. They were holding hands, and he knew that they were happy together. He wished them the best of luck.

"You're awake!" Hermione squealed, seeing him open his eyes. "We were beginning to worry!"

"Thank God you're all right," Ron added.

Harry decided that this would not be the best time to tell them that he was far from all right. He was alive, almost completely sane, and his wounds were healing, though, so he supposed that it counted. He wasn't about to discuss the reasons that he wasn't all right with them, and, for all they knew, he was perfectly fine. He let them keep the illusion.

"How long have I been here?" His voice was hoarse with disuse. He cleared his throat painfully, gratefully accepting the glass of water that Hermione conjured up for him.

"Almost a month," Hermione answered. "It's August 15th today."

He was eighteen. He'd slept through his eighteenth birthday. All in all, he thought, that wasn't a bad thing.

"What happened?" he asked.

Ron frowned. "Well, after You-know-who was killed, they started rebuilding Hogwarts. It wasn't as badly destroyed as most people had expected, and all of us helped. Classes are starting again in September."

"Are you staying?"

Hermione nodded. "Absolutely _nothing_ useful was accomplished last year," she informed him. "All of us have to do the year over again."

He nodded. "How is everyone?" How was Draco? It was a question he could never ask. Not to them. They wouldn't understand.

Ron shrugged. "They're coping as well as they can," he said. "Mum is still trying to get over Fred…" he trailed off. Harry nodded again. He knew what Ron's mum was going through, at least somewhat. After all, loss was loss, whether it was your son or your parents.

"We should get going," Hermione interjected, glancing at her watch. "Madam Pomfrey said that we shouldn't stay too long."

Ron sighed. "We'll come back tomorrow," he promised Harry. Harry nodded. He was suddenly inordinately tired, and all he wanted was a little solitude so that he could go back to sleep. The slipped out of the room, leaving him alone again. Well, not quite alone. Every single other bed was filled, though none of the other patients were awake. Obviously losses had been heavy, if he wasn't the only one still bed bound this long after the actual battle.

The battle. He'd been trying not to think about it, but the sight of all the bodies, so like the corpses that had littered the grounds, brought it all back. The flashing light of curses. The harsh laugher coming from Voldemort. The screams. Oh Gods the screams! They sounded in his head again, making him shudder convulsively. The pain in his body reminded him why he was still here, and he forced himself to relax.

He drifted off into a troubled sleep, filled with hazy nightmares and brimming with half-seen monsters. He woke drenched in cold sweat, shivering violently. He drew the blanket up over himself, not ready to go back to sleep. If he did, the dreams would just come back, and he didn't want that. He couldn't face them, not yet.

There was a sound in the doorway, and he was instantly clutching at where his wand should be and bracing himself against the headboard. His fingers closed on empty air, and he felt his lungs fill with icy panic. Where was his wand? How had he allowed himself to become separated from it? Without it they could kill him! He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable shower of curses. They didn't come. Instead, he heard low voices talking. Months of captivity had sharpened all of his senses, and he strained to make out what they were saying.

"What happened to him?" That was Madam Pomfrey, kind yet businesslike, brisk while still being compassionate. He knew that voice. She would not harm him.

"A suicide attempt, I believe." He knew that voice too, and this one made him shrink back farther against the headboard. Snape. The traitor to both sides. The one who had betrayed so many people that no one – including himself – knew which side he was truly on.

Madam Pomfrey's breath hissed in her lungs as she internalized this last piece of information. "There is always one, isn't there?"

Snape must have nodded, because Harry didn't hear anything but the whisper of robes on the stone floor.

"Put him here." Her voice was closer now, and he did his best to be as small as possible. He didn't want her to see him. There was more rustling, then the sound of a body being lowered onto the bed next to Harry's. Of course. It was the only empty bed in the room.

"Thank you. I expect you'll want to get back to your house."

Snape didn't acknowledge her, simply swept away, his robes brushing Harry's bed. Harry shuddered. He waited as Madam Pomfrey fussed over the new patient, impatient for her to leave. He wanted to see who it was. At long last, she left, leaving a bottle of something by the patient's bed. Harry assumed that it was some kind of healing concoction. He didn't really care.

He reached over to his own bedside table, delighted to find not only his glassed but his wand as well. The moment his fingers brushed the well-worn Holly object, he felt calm wash through him. It was amazing how effective it was.

He lit it with a silent spell, adding the variation that he'd learned that allowed it to shine only for him. He didn't want Madam Pomfrey to come in and demanded to know what he was doing. He leaned across the small gap between the two beds, bent to examine the figure…

…and recoiled in horror. It couldn't be true! It was a lie, a trick, _anything_ but what his eyes told him was the truth. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched the icy flesh of the boy who was his true love.

Draco's eyelids fluttered slightly, showing signs of life. Harry felt exceedingly relieved at this, and he expanded the light from his wand so that Draco was included in the spell. The blond boy's eyes flickered open again, then closed. Harry wondered if he was doing the right thing, then ignored his conscience. This was far more important than mere health concerns.

"Draco?" he breathed. "Are you awake?"

"Am I dead?" The question was asked almost hesitantly, as though the boy didn't know which of two answers he wanted more.

"No."

"Oh. Is this a dream?"

Harry couldn't help chuckling cynically, and Draco turned reproachful eyes on him. Harry felt himself melt into those eyes. He'd missed them so much, and now they were clouded with pain and fear. "No," he assured Draco. "You're awake."

"Then why are you here?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"You're dead," Draco repeated patiently. "Therefore I shouldn't be seeing you. Am I dreaming?"

"I'm not dead," Harry said, feeling his heart tighten in pain. "And you're not asleep. It's me, Draco!"

"Harry?" It was barely a whisper, as though he couldn't believe it.

"Yes."

And suddenly Draco was in his arms. Harry didn't know how they'd gotten there, but one instant they were staring at each other, and the next he was holding Draco as the blond boy wept openly into his shirt.

"Shh," Harry soothed, running his hands up and down Draco's back. He set his wand down, where the spell ended, and wrapped both arms around Draco. The other boy was thinner, he noted. Well, Harry was thinner too, and the bones stuck as prominantly in his face as they did in Draco's. It had been hard. "Shh, baby. I'm here. It'll be all right. I'm here." It was a constant litany, one made up of almost meaningless words that were not meant to mean anything.

Finally, Draco's tears slowed to a ragged stop, and he took a deep breath. Harry watched him, wondering if he could ask the single question that was burning inside him. Finally, he realized that he had to.

"Why?"

It was such a simple word, yet in contained so much. Why had Draco done it? Why hadn't he waited? Why hadn't Harry been there for him? Why?

"I thought you were dead." It answered them all without answering any of them. "I can't go on without you. You're my rock."

Harry was stunned. He knew, of course, that Draco cared deeply for him, but he'd never realized until then just how much. "Draco," he whispered helplessly.

Whether carried on by instinct or by design, Draco didn't stop there. "Did you think it was easy, staying behind? Never knowing if you were dead or not? Did you think that you were doing me a favor by leaving me where it was safe? Nothing's safe, Harry. Didn't you know that? Nowhere is safe, and I would have been in as much danger with you. Why didn't you take me with you?"

"I… I didn't want you to be hurt." It sounded feeble, and Harry knew that it wasn't enough.

Draco's bitter laugh confirmed that. "You didn't want me to be hurt. That explains why you ripped my heart out and tore it to pieces, leaving me with nothing but a hole in its place?"

Harry had no answer to that, and Draco knew it.

"You killed me, Harry. You killed me and then came back to hurt me more."

"No." The word was out before Harry could stop himself. No. He hadn't intended to hurt Draco, but he had. He knew that now. How naïve he had been, to think that he could protect Draco by leaving him. Maybe if he hadn't, then they wouldn't be here now, wouldn't be having this awful conversation.

"Yes." It was deliberate, a cold negation of everything that Harry had been trying to say.

"Draco." He was helpless, swept away in the rising tides of anger, betrayal, and pain.

"I'm sorry." Draco's voice wobbled slightly, but he held firm to his resolve. "I can't forgive you."

The words cut deeply. How could Draco know? How could he know that what Harry wanted most in the world was forgiveness. _His_ forgiveness. He was denying Harry the one thing he needed, and he was doing it on purpose.

"Why?"

That word again, so plain yet so hard to say.

"You've hurt me too many time. I can't do it anymore, Harry. I can't be hurt again."

"Draco, I…"

"I'm sorry."

Harry pulled away suddenly. "Then be sorry somewhere else." The venom in his voice was plain for both to see, and it frightened Harry somewhat. He hadn't thought he was capable of such emotions anymore. He'd thought that all emotion had been stamped out of him by months of captivity.

"I will." It was final, a declaration of parting of ways that could never be rectified. Things had been said, on both sides, that were unforgivable. Harry curled up on his bed, not taking his glasses off, and allowed the tears to fall from his eyes in an ever increasing torrent. It was over. No one would ever know. They would never look at each other that way again, would never laugh together, would never kiss, would never touch… They would go back to the way it had been before, and neither would look back.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were no more.

_fin_


End file.
